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A Summer of Sensuality (and More on that Pesky PhD)
Looking back at the month since I’ve returned from Australia, I haven’t done very much. Thought and ruminated and whined a lot (particularly in the blog), yes, but very little beyond that. There’s been some cooking and cake baking and knitting, some meeting friends in coffeehouses, some TV and movie watching, but little of my usual curiosity or interest in my usual pursuits.
There’s been no political debate with friends lately. No detailed analyses, pens in hand, of the political/social/economic tracts that I put off till summer—Kagan, Sen, Friedman, I’m looking at you. No volunteer or charity work, even though I chaffed at my limited opportunities in Melbourne. No coding of any sort, even with the purely Linux box waiting patiently in my bedroom. There’s been very little reading, even; beyond slowly making my way through El amor en los tiempos de Colera—with my English-Spanish dictionary purposely packed away in an impossible-to-reach box—my usually insatiable appetite for reading and words of all sorts seems strangely satisfied.
(A pause here is warranted while all my friends run to the window and check if four horsemen are on the loose.)
I go through this sort of phase for a little while every year, but this summer it seems unusually long and intense. I’ve busted out the camera more and more lately, taking shots of shapes and patterns that catch my eye. The music is on more often, and louder, than before. I linger more and more at each meal, letting bites rest longer on my tongue before swallowing. I spend ridiculous amounts of time kneading dough or fingering the soft merino and possum wool that’s on my silky smooth knitting needles. I’ve spent way too much money on movies and the beautifully tart servings of lemon or lime ice. And, for now, I’m perfectly content to let inertia do its job and for things to stay this way.
My brain seems to have reached a limit of sorts; I’m getting all sorts of signals that it’s sick of theories and models and critical thinking and intellectual rigor and academic excellence—at least for a little while. It doesn’t want to think more about the effects of multilingualism on the human brain or the social impact of globalization on developing countries or even the November election. It doesn’t even want to attempt reading the 9/11 Commission’s Final Report, released a few weeks ago. The last time I tried reading the Executive Summary—not even the actual report—it threatened to walk out on me entirely, and being unsure about how to fight my own brain (what sorts of tools does one use in that instance?), I let the matter go.
Right now, I’m content to go where my senses lead me. I’ve found enormous pleasure in watching the scarf I started during the trip to Toronto take shape, the taste of newly picked strawberries, the smell of freshly baked bread, the unequalled comfort of a bath with lavender oil. There is a certain comfort, one I’ve sought too seldom to understand entirely, in indulging the senses and paying attention to the present. Of resolutely not thinking of causality or consequences or some Bigger Picture, and appreciating the beauty that is Here Right Now.
For a little while, at least, there will be no more planning or worrying about the future. Until my brain gets the recharge it apparently needs, I’m going to enjoy the riches that I have access to and previously ignored.
The ephemeral, by its very definition, can’t last long. But I hope that it at least provides a sort of balance to the tunnel vision that develops after concentrating for so long on the future, a time forever out of my grip.
*****
When I posted some weeks ago about my decision not to seek a Doctorate, the response—frankly, the condemnation—was swift and strong. Mere hours after that unfinished (but nonetheless articulated) thought appeared in this space, two very outraged emails made their way into my inbox, demanding explanations. The one from England was—as one would expect—carefully worded, calmly angry, more than ready for a long and drawn out fight (just as soon as I rose to the bait). The missive from South Africa from my mentor, though—oh, that was impressive and memorable. I can only describe it as a priceless and painful education in what happens when you demolish lovingly tended castles in the sky.
(And before I get asked: yes, both emails were saved—and no, I’m not quoting, posting, or forwarding either of them, no matter who asks. If you want to read them, you’ll have to ask the senders directly; should you know me well enough to request—and reasonably expect to receive—copies, you’ll also know who wrote them in the first place, and how they can be contacted.)
I bring this up because the authors of those angry emails have calmed down, but neither is ready or willing to let the issue go. And they will read what I’ve written above, and assume that my decision is the result of the Annual Brain Shift of Abnormal Reasoning (or alternatively, the Annual Attack of Misguided Hedonism). Neither is the sort who would hesitate to use my publicly posted words against me, and I imagine that they both were crafting their arguments anew before being stopped cold by this particular sentence. For whatever it’s worth—and I don’t think it’s much when they’re convinced I’m Wasting My Potential—I ask them to not send the emails they’ve already drafted in their heads.
I’ve clarified my reasons, albeit to no one but myself. Eventually I’ll be willing to share them, but I’m not at that stage yet. When I am, you’ll know, and you’ll get the explanations that you deserve—even if they aren’t the ones you’d like to accept. Until then, please just trust me, and trust that I love you both.